


Hands

by HomeIsSpelledKAZ2Y5



Series: Hands, Eyes, Hearts [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Solo, squint for Sastiel, squint for Wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4201449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomeIsSpelledKAZ2Y5/pseuds/HomeIsSpelledKAZ2Y5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second in my drabble collection. <i>Sam's always had a thing for hands.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands

 Sam's always had a thing for hands.

They exemplify a person. Once (in a book that held no other useful information) he read that you can tell how old a person is by looking at their hands. No matter what kind of work they've had done, despite hair plugs or Botox or makeup, any youthful glamour is negated by the age that shows in their hands. It makes sense to Sam. Who'd get cosmetic surgery there?

He always notices a person's hands, second after their eyes--but sometimes, they're all he sees. A fleeting touch to a railing, for instance. A fist flying out of a crowd. Hell, the few times he's been blindfolded while being held hostage. (Amateurs. He could still see their hands as they tugged on the knots. Caressed his chest. They always had a thing for his chest.)

Sam isn't blind to other characteristics. He just likes the way a person's hands become more of what they do, _who they are,_  than all the rest of them. Calluses, developed in the most unique places and patterns; the contrast of veins and sinew as muscle groups are used or ignored; and the mapping of their skin atop all those fragile bones. Sam knows how to incapacitate someone using just the pressure points in their hands, and will sometimes choose to do this just because he can. Not because it's easiest, or safest for him.

Of course, the one person who understands this least is Dean. He's always pursing his lips when Sam lingers milliseconds too long on a handshake, or a watch ad in some magazine. Sam has tried to explain that it's not a sexual thing, that he just really likes studying hands. Dean doesn't get it. Usually he replies with a bad joke, being his perverse self, and every so often it slips out (in the stutter-step of realizing too late that he probably ought to just shut up) as "well, maybe you shoulda been a... hand... guy", because Dean never bothered to look up the words  _orthopedist_ , or  _rheumatologist_ , or even just  _hand surgeon_.

On down the road, when Sam goes mad, he finds it especially ironic that his one solace comes from his hand. Pressing down on the nasty cut long after it should have healed clean, feeling the deep-tissue twinge and visceral satisfaction when Lucifer's forked-tongue face sizzles out like so much static, gives him the same simmer in his gut that arousal used to. He's had to trade one for the other at this point. He doesn't much mind. Dean wouldn't get that, either. Dean doesn't seem to understand a lot of things when they don't fit with his worldview.

Sam doesn't hold it against him. He's just overwhelmingly grateful to be wrong in that assumption when Dean grabs his hand, and squeezes to bring him back. Dean says Sam's name in that gruff voice he's borrowed from Castiel, and squeezes so hard that Sam is gasping, instantly sane, and stupidly hard. Neither of them mention that. Dean doesn't even look down. Sam is thanking him breathlessly; Dean is just holding his hand, stroking over the angry scar.

That's a memory that Sam treasures.

He's never much liked his own hands. They've always been too big. Dexterous, sure, because they had to be, always getting in the way. He's almost lost the use of his fingers due to smashing with heavy objects or doors more times than he cares to count. When he was younger; actually, for most of his life, Sam's hands were bigger than the rest of him. Same with his feet.  _Like a puppy_ , Dean would joke-- _it goes with the eyes_. Sam would roll said eyes and  _har de har har, Dean_ , and then later find himself sitting on the edge of his bed just frowning down at his hands.

Now, as they take him closer and closer to completion, he finds he doesn't mind them so much. He strokes faster, rolling a nipple between thumb and forefinger, feeling the sharp edges of calluses as he drags a flat palm down his chest. The juxtaposition adds new flavor, another dimension--Sam is both object and active observer. The smooth skin beneath his palm, the rough palm on his skin. He arches into his fist and comes, gasping, every place he's touched himself an oversensitive shimmer.

No one needs to know whose hands he pictured them to be this time. It's always one of two people, has been for years. Neither one of them know, and he will never tell them. It's a nasty thing that Sam will take to his permanent grave, when and wherever that may lie. Those two don't need to know that every time Sam looks at their hands, he's renewing his dirty little secret.

Dean might know, since he knows more about Sam than he even consciously realizes, but Cas is almost pathetically oblivious. Cas will wrap a strong, pale hand around Sam's forearm as they talk, and he doesn't mean anything by it. Doesn't know what it does to Sam, the clenching in his gut, abs jumping away as he tries to sound normal. Dean, though, he still places a steady palm on the wing of Sam's shoulder and damn him, leaves it there. The heat bleeds through Sam's three layers and it's like a muted brand straight down into the deep tissue core of him. That sort of touch will leave him simmering for days. He likes to drag it out, refusing to touch himself until he's practically mindless with need. It's not like he can get his kicks any other way.

He'd swear that Dean knows, but there's no way. The casual touches would cease the instant Dean found him out. Sam knows that beyond a shadow of doubt. His brother isn't a freak. There's only one of those in this family.

Sam almost tells him everything so many times, but once the word vomit started he wouldn't be able to hold back. He'd have to tell Dean  _everything_ , things about him that no one knows, and how fucked up this mess of their lives is that's been swept up irreparably into who  _Sam_  is, what he is, the essence of his being.

Guilt, and the hands of those he loves.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://www.wattpad.com/127752659-hands-eyes-hearts-a-collection-of-supernatural).
> 
> Please leave kudos if you ♥ it.


End file.
